A Portrait Paints 1000 Words
by dreaming.in.sepia
Summary: Anne Boleyn reflects on her life through the portraits of her as she fights or her survival and her marriage.   Not entirely based on the TV show-more the actual historical events.
1. Chapter 1

Introduction

She looked at her new dress. Black satin with fur sleeves, a low square neckline and (she knew, although she couldn't currently see it-the mirror had recently been broken in a fit of anger) the most flattering, fashionable French hood. Indeed, there was not a luckier or better dressed woman than her in all of Europe. But her face told a different story. She looked old, despite the fact she was only 32 and what was more, she knew everyone else thought the same thing. Including him. She had tried so hard, but there had been so many failures. What could she do? She really had tried everything. Her favourite necklace hung heavy around her neck, and, as had become her custom when she felt herself panicking, she began to finger the pendant.

She remembered little about her childhood. Constant lessons, dress fittings, deportment lessons...she hadn't so much had a childhood as one long lesson in fact. A lesson on how to be the perfect court lady. Then of course, both she and her sister had been sent to France, where Mary-the pretty one, the kind one, the English one-had become the Great Prostitute. She had seen her sister cry night after night, and she had sworn she would never become like her. She would never do that. But the opulence of the French court-the jewels, the Gold, the affairs, the courtly pursuit of Women-now that had been a good lesson. She had, indeed, learnt a lot there. How to charm, how to flirt, how to be adored and never return the favour. She remembered this as she fingered the gold B she always wore, to remind her of who she was and why she was here. She wondered if she should have Elizabeth made one too. It couldn't hurt to remind her beloved daughter of all her heritage, and not just her father's line. She would have to be careful how she introduced it into Elizabeth's wardrobe though. Maybe just an E for now. It would certainly look beautiful with the new green velvet gown she had designed for her daughter.

Snapping out of her reverie, she straightened her skirt one last time, fixed her hood so her long, deep black hair could just be seen and pinched her cheeks. She looked up at the painter, sitting there as he had been now for at least half an hour while she perfected her outfit and collected her thoughts. This portrait had to be perfect. She had to look the part. He had to see this painting and fall in love with an image of her again. He had to, or there was no hope left for any of them.

"You may begin now." Anne Boleyn calmly commanded the court painter.


	2. Chapter 2

24th March 1535

Anne Boleyn smiled at her courtiers standing around in the room. She looked around until she saw him, and then she waved him over. "Sing for us Smeaton" She commanded, smiling gracefully at the excited lute player. He wasn't the best player, she thought to herself, but he was so eager to please, and so often there, she felt she ought to give him the chance at least. He picked up his lute, and began to play her favourite dancing tune. She laughed, swirled into the middle of the room and began dancing. Her ladies just smiled at her and joined in.

Suddenly, the door opened and in walked her husband. Everyone bent low, including Anne; but when Henry saw her he simply smiled and walked over to her.

"How is our daughter?"

Anne looked up, flushing with happiness at the thought of her daughter. "Beautiful, clever beyond her years and the most exquisite dancer. Identical to your grace in every way." She had only gone to see Elizabeth a few hours ago. Indeed, she was all of those things and more. In Anne's eyes, she couldn't be more perfect-although her wardrobe could be, but Anne aimed to remedy that. She had already begun designing the latest dresses for Elizabeth in a range of greens to set off her daughter's Tudor colouring. She was a true Tudor-and Anne was secretly very thankful that that couldn't be denied, thanks to her daughter's hair and quick temper. There were already enough rumours about her.

Henry began to smile, but before it reached his eyes he stopped. "Except, of course, that she is a girl. We must try harder next time. My country needs a Prince."

"Of course your majesty" Anne Boleyn replied, only her swiftly paling cheeks showing just how much harder she would have to try.

She reflected on this scene as she carefully (with the help of her servants) selected the best outfit, and swept into the room where a painter sat, carefully laying out his brushes before him. She sat down in front of him and looked expectantly.

"Your Majesty?" He bowed. "I have a request."

"Yes?" Anne Boleyn questioned, raising one eyebrow slightly.

"Would you consider holding this rose in the painting?" He said, holding up a perfectly made scarlet rose.

She smiled. "Of course."

As the painter finished preparing the canvas, she made sure the B pendant around her neck was absolutely perfect, straightening the lengths of pearls and gold chains around her chest and straightening the neck line of her dress. This was her ceremonial portrait, to commemorate The Most Happy and her triumph. Elizabeth would look back on this portrait one day and be proud of her mother. Would wonder how lovely she looked. Would finger her own Boleyn pendant. Anne pinched her cheeks to make them as pink as they could be and carefully smoothed every last tendril of her hair underneath the expensive velvet French hood-the latest style of course. Honestly, what more could she do? She had tried everything! Or had she? She looked quickly aside at a mirror to cover her thoughts-or really, the mirror, since it was the most expensive object in the room. Her face stared back at her-cheeks pink, lips red, hair perfect-but just the faintest ridges under her deep brown eyes to show just how she really felt. Otherwise, perfect. She turned to the painter.

"We may begin now."


	3. Chapter 3

29th May 1533

When she opened her eyes she panicked for a second. The room-although lavishly decorated, was unmistakably within a prison of some kind, due to the thick stone walls. She could see little out of the small windows except for a small courtyard-then the spires of the iconic Tower. She was in the Tower. The Tower. The palace built on secrets and bodies. She felt a sudden, sharp moment of panic.

Then she remembered.

Today was her coronation.

Today was the day of her victory.

Today was her day of triumph.

She pulled herself out of her bed and instantly was set upon by a crowd of serving women, all seemingly eager to cover her in makeup and pimp her until she was perfect. Some of them looked askance at her stomach, and she felt the first stirring of the customary blush, but quickly stopped herself. In just a few hours, she would be queen. She would rule over the country, and she would bring this country the heir it so desperately needed. No-one else. So she looked away and forced herself not to blush, instead busying herself in making sure the dress was perfect and her earrings matched exactly.

6 hours later and she could barely feel her face, so much plucking and colouring had been done. Nevertheless, she smiled regally at the crowd watching her as she was carried on her litter coverd in gold cloth. Each jolt seemed to take her a step further towards her dream, and she could nearly bear the looks of hate she was receiving at the roadside by thinking about the moment the crown would be placed upon her head. Nearly, but not quite. Then, suddenly, as she passed the student part of the rabble, she began to hear a chant spring up. "HA! HA!".

Tears instantly pricked her eyes. Pregnancy didn't help her control her emotions at the best of times, and this was one step too much. She felt like she loved these people, she wanted to be a good queen to them, to rule fairly and justly, and the child she held right now was to be born to protect them from civil war and bloodshed. Why could they not see that? What was so wrong with her that they so instantly hated her? What had she done-other than not be Katherine?

One of her aids, seeing her distress, leaned over to her and softly pointed out the entwined initials hung everywhere in shades of azure, handpicked on scarlet in gold and carefully entwining like silver serpents on a background of emerald. H and A. Henry and Anne. They weren't shouting at her at all. They were celebrating along with her! She blocked out the small voice inside her head that wondered aloud why they would not simply cheer instead, and instead surreptitiously wiped the tears that seemed to have fallen unknowingly onto her cheeks and lifted her arm once more to wave at the crowds. And in her imagination the cries of Ha Blended into one long Hurray, and she no longer felt so alone. She looked up at the sky from under the edge of her litter, and stared at the clouds-reminiscent of sheep's wool before being carded-skating across the cornflower blue sky. She smiled.

When the crown was lowered onto Anne Boleyn's head less than two hours later, she felt in her very bones that she was meant to be here. That this was where she belonged, had belonged all along. She was queen now, and no-one could ever take this triumph away from her. The feeling she had had this morning in the tower, the one of imprisonment and that sudden fear, would never happen again. She would never be locked up in a place like that. She was the Queen, and no-one could touch her.

As the painter came towards her after the coronation to quickly take some preliminary sketches which he would use to paint her in her finest hour seated next the her husband, the King of England-she smiled. She would be preserved for posterity looking at her best next to the man she loved. She could show her daughters this painting-after her son had been born, obviously-and tell them of this great day. And so, sitting herself down comfortably on the chair which had been ready plumped with pillows for the pregnant Queen's aching back, she smiled beatifically at the painter, as she thought a Queen should.

"I pray you, do begin."


End file.
